


Mastered Deceit

by anderscones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, sherlock POV, the fall pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderscones/pseuds/anderscones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The POV of Sherlock after he hit the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mastered Deceit

**Author's Note:**

> When TRF aired again just before the teaser trailer, I wondered to myself "How would that have been when John was grabbing and clutching at him?"

                The ground under my body felt impossibly cold. I could hear the group beginning to form around me and wonder aloud if I were okay; of course I was, but honestly, people can be incredibly dim. They saw me fall from the roof of a building, yet they weren’t certain if I had died or not. I wasn’t dead, but from the amount of evidence the average human took in and the limitations of their constricted minds, it should have appeared that I was. They didn’t ask because they thought something was amiss. They asked because they were in denial, shock. _Would someone really take their own life? I am blessed to not have this sort of thing happen to me. But why? What was it like? What could have possibly driven him to do this? Was he tired? Was he triggered by something and didn’t clear his mind before jumping?_ None of them would have guessed the true answer, and it was meant to be that way. Faking ones death takes a lot of patience and the ability of mastered deceit.

                A woman grabbed at my coat, and it was wrong. If she really would have wanted to help, she would have not moved me whatsoever since I was supposed to have a spinal injury and burst organs. John would have known not to move me in case of the point of a percent chance that I survived. The crowd grew closer, though untouching. A man spoke and said “He- he jumped. From there.” A finger shot skywards. _I was pushed you dunce._ Again, a mistake. John would have said to give the victim room to breathe if they were doing so. More and more people joined my side, yet none of them were saying anything. If John were close, he would be yelling at someone to call the authorities, or to run inside and fetch one of the many doctors in the building. But… John _was_ there. “ _I’m a doctor. Let me come through. Let me come through, please.”_ His voice was fast approaching my location, sounding incredibly not himself. _“He’s my friend. He’s my friend. Let me through. Please! Please. Let me just…”_  It was not Doctor John Hamish Watson that was making his way to me. No, Doctor John Hamish Watson would have taken charge and kept himself in control, producing orders to the surrounding people. No, it was not the calm and collected man who only became ruffled when there were slugs sitting next to the open left overs in the fridge or if the salt was in the sugar container. This John Watson sounded oddly… distressed.  It was not the man I knew, as if he were numb and far away and as if his soul were drawn from his body and floating high above me, much closer to where I was moments ago.

                Warm fingers wrapped around my wrist, clinging to me like I was the only source of life as someone pried them away. _How ironic._ I thought to myself as I saw a familiar figure enter my vision from the corner of my eye. I could do nothing but stare straight into the bright, warm sky, though I wanted to peer at the man leaning over me. He was ripped from my view and someone rolled me further. “ _Jesus. No. God, no.”_   I was being lifted on a gurney, and I felt something break inside of me when I heard the voice. “ _God no, god no.”_  It was not the bones that were falsely assumed to be damaged, or the veins that were not actually popped and pouring over the side of my face. It, as silly as it seemed, was my heart. It didn’t literally break, that’d be ridiculous, but I felt a sorrow tugging at the inside of my chest. John sounded just as damaged and broken as my body was thought to be, like I had crumbled the normally composed man. The pang felt possibly worse than any injury I could sustain. It was a mirrored hurt to what he must have been feeling, and guilt ran through my senses; John Watson would not be the same man when I returned to him.


End file.
